Christopher Golden - The Borderkind

The best thing about his new clothes was the thick, soft cotton socks and the light undershorts, which were woven from a fabric unfamiliar to him. Putting them on was almost as soothing as his bath.

His hunger, as he entered the tavern, was a ravenous beast, growling in his belly. The smells that wafted along the corridor only made it worse. But once inside, he forgot about food for several moments.

“Apparently, I’m the last to arrive.”

Frost looked up from the gathering. Several dark wooden tables had been pushed together to make one long enough to rival the conference room at Bascombe amp; Cox. Blue Jay was beside him, dressed almost identically to Oliver, though his jeans were blue and he still wore feathers in his hair. Kitsune was next to him, her hood back, her fur cloak gleaming luxuriously in the fading afternoon light. Her raven-black hair framed her face severely, and when she glanced at him he expected a smile but found only a grimness of purpose.

It was the time for plans to be laid and companionship to be abandoned. Oliver felt strangely cold and isolated. This gathering had so very little to do with him now that he wondered if he ought to have been there at all. But there was food to be had-barbecued beef and poultry and boiled potatoes and vegetables, from what he could see-and he knew that he would need at least advice from this assemblage before they parted ways.

“Please, Oliver, come in. Sit down,” said Coyote, standing up from the darkest corner of the table. He wore his thief’s grin, as Oliver’s father would have called it. Oliver would not have disagreed.

There were others there, of course. Coyote had gathered a group that seemed just as odd as Oliver’s traveling companions. More so, in fact, given that one of them was an enormous frog-thing that sat on the ground instead of a chair, legs up beside it as though it might leap at any moment. Its bulbous eyes were a putrid yellow, its skin a pale greenish-brown, ridged, mottled, and slick.

“Oliver?” Frost said sharply.

The frog-thing muttered something in a guttural language he could not understand.

“Excuse me?” Oliver said.

Coyote leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Tlatecuhtli says it’s not polite to stare.”

“Ah, yeah. Right. I’m sorry about that,” he said sheepishly, going over to take the empty seat beside Blue Jay. “Just takes some getting used to. All of this.”

The frog spoke again, its voice vaguely disgusting, like a series of belches. Oliver looked to Coyote for help.

“He forgives you,” Coyote said. “You’re an outsider. You don’t know any better.”

Oliver smiled at the frog, whose name he could not even begin to pronounce. Cuhtli-something. “Thank you.”

All of the Borderkind at the table were staring at him. Oliver wondered what would happen were he to remind them that it was not polite. He glanced at Kitsune, then at Frost.

The winter man raised his chin and shifted in his chair. His sharp, icy fingers scratched the table as he moved. This alone was enough to draw all of the attention in the room. Oliver was grateful. It was also clear that all of those gathered were willing to defer to Frost.

Mist steamed from his eyes. The afternoon light played a myriad of colors off of the angles of his frigid features. Frost gestured toward Coyote.

“Oliver, you already know Coyote.”

“Yes. Thank you for the clothes.”

Coyote touched two fingers to his forehead, almost as though he were tipping a hat, though he wasn’t wearing one.

“You have just met Tlatecuhtli. He hails from Yucatazca, where he is still worshipped by some of the descendants of the original Aztec people.”

The frog-thing let out a long, low noise and blinked once at Oliver.

The introductions continued. At the far end of the table, opposite Frost, was a monstrous, savage-looking creature from whom Oliver would have run screaming once upon a time. But his time in the world of the legendary had taught him not to judge so quickly.

The thing-called Chorti-was covered in shaggy gray-and-black hair. Though it was seated, Oliver figured it must have been nine feet tall at least, and it was twice as broad across as the table. Its hands were crossed over its chest as though it might be sleeping, and the long claws that jutted from its fingers were made of metal. Oliver had to look twice to confirm that.

Chorti smiled a mouthful of razors and offered him a little wave of greeting. A creature as frightening and imposing as this would make one hell of an ally in a fight. Oliver nodded to the beast and silently wished that it could come along with him to rescue Collette.

Beside Chorti, seated close enough to indicate that they were together, sat a coldly imperious woman with hair so white it looked almost silver. She wore a white dress, cotton and lace, and other than her hair she seemed entirely too proper and ordinary to be one of the Borderkind. Frost introduced her as Cheval Bayard, and Oliver took it from the accent in her quiet hello that she was of French origin.

Cheval leaned over to whisper something to Chorti and the beast-man grunted in amusement, a soft, chuffing laughter coming from his chest. She stroked the thick fur at the back of his head. Apparently, she was not nearly as cold as he had imagined. He liked her better for her easy way with the beast-man.

Oliver studied them a moment out of the corner of his eye. The way Cheval had whispered to Chorti gave the pair the air of lovers, but as she stroked him, it was almost as though he were her pet. Yet, when he saw the way they looked at one another-the knowing humor there-neither of those theories seemed correct, and he was left wondering about the relationship between the strange pair.

The last of the gathering was a seven-foot, broad-shouldered man with a gray-streaked, rust-colored beard. When the man looked up from beneath a wide-brimmed hat with stone-gray eyes, Oliver knew he’d met him before.

“And this is-” Frost began when he came to the man, the last introduction.

“Wayland Smith,” Oliver interrupted. “I remember you from Amelia’s.”

“Yes,” Smith replied. “That was…regrettable.”

The man was a weaponsmaster and forger, as well as a magician. And as far as Oliver was concerned, he could not be trusted. Smith toyed briefly with the fox-head of his cane, then rested it against the table.

After the introductions, that odd convocation began to eat. The beef had been marinated in some exotic spice, and Oliver thought it was among the most delicious things he had ever tasted. The boiled potatoes likewise surprised him. They had clearly been boiled as part of some other recipe, simmering with herbs and spices, and the flavor was rich, the potatoes creamy.

Several minutes passed in relative silence as the travelers began to sate their hunger. Low conversation went on amongst the local Borderkind. Frost was deep in thought and whispered several times to Blue Jay. Kitsune watched them, and Oliver thought she was irked to be left out of whatever scheme they were hatching.

His attention returned every few moments to Cheval Bayard and Chorti. The pair were such an unlikely duo-this beautiful, distant woman and her hirsute companion with his metal fangs and claws-that Oliver found himself unable to stop puzzling over them.

“Do you find her beautiful?” Kitsune whispered to him as the others continued their meal.

Oliver frowned and glanced at her, startled by the intensity of her eyes as she searched his own for the answer to that question.

“I suppose she is,” he admitted, “but I was just curious. They make a strange pair.”

Kitsune’s expression softened. “Sometimes the most opposite people make the closest friends. That’s true on both sides of the Veil.”